I Can See It In Your Eyes
by Tears for the Dreaming
Summary: Peter has to live with his responsibilities, and where Mary Jane is concerned its heart breaking for both of them. A gritty, slightly warped movie verse setting, PMJ (Disclaimer:I own nothing)


The room he sat in was but a few shadows, colours and shapes, his eyes bleeding over them like gaunt windows to a broken home. His chair was solid, stiff and uncompromising as he drifted in and out of his thoughts, appearing in his mind like random pop-ups on his laptop screen, and just as quickly dismissed without wanton interest.

Peter Parker had been told he was a smart attractive boy with a promising future. He wasn't sure who had told him this but they deserved a good beating. His body ached; nicks and burns littered his figure like trophies for the deck stacked against him. His stomach burned with unfed acid, scratching, ripping at his insides in a vain attempt to gain attention and possibly food. The cage inside which he festered was empty, a shell of tattered clothes and broken dreams. Peter was draped over an old chair in the corner of the dank hole, twilight hours fast approaching, and after next to no sleep Peter was twitching, his eyelids like weights nailed into his skull. Insomnia was not something he had gotten out of ill fortune, but from sheer practice.

Limp and ragged, an unwanted puppet of the city he destroyed himself for, Spiderman, head in hands scowled helplessly at the bare wooden floorboards underneath his feet. Adorned in nothing more than old worn jeans, the knees laced with dirt, the flesh and bones of the man whom had saved so many lives, tempted death with a modesty and courage far beyond most people. All he could figure was that his amazing powers needed a balance, like a giant set of galactic scales. On one side was his good dish, which had been filled with a hefty block of Superpowers. In the other dish to create equilibrium was a suitably matching block of 'social suicide' created by his alter ego and the abilities he had unlike any other person alive.

Holding the scales was a memory, a vivid set of eyes he had bore deeply into his brain, Uncle Ben. It was he force holing up the dish's links, the one that kept Peter from removing either block, because the two were bound together with words, simple assortments of letters, fragmented in his chest.

"With great power comes great responsibility".

Pain burned in his throat, choking, overwhelming his every sense, right or wrong he had to continue, had to take it, he could bear this, no other choice had ever presented itself before his weary eyes. Tired, scarred, scathed he would fight on, forsaken; he would not surrender. His hands shuck visibly as rough fingers stirred the hair on his head, falling, lifeless, more than he could hope for tonight. The fading light scorched the retina, lips dry and cracking Peter was going to try and stand but had not the energy or the reason to succeed. Today the whole world had woken up with the rising sun, and unanimously decided to just kick him in the teeth, hard and without mercy.

"Today was a test" he though, "All I need to do is live on". He had thought it, and then wondered about such a fading statement. Life was something that nobody could control as he saw it, it had no odds or plays, just a random throw of infinite sided dice. He could quite easily continued to live, fight on until he could simply fight no more, fall from grace and be only a foggy shadow in the archive of the bugle. His life would continue until he reached its conclusion, old age, an accident. He often felt sorry for the pedestrians under him as he careered through the city's skies on his webs, the pointless existence they had. What had they done with their lives? The average male was primitive at best, subdued on a diet of violence, sex and drink. Until they die that is it, and the woman no better. She clamoured for money, looks and power. But who Am I to judge exactly? Sat in his pit of despair Peter would find it so easy to shelter in elitism, to judge and disregard those whom had their chance at a normal life.

For every time he tried to stereotype, unconsciously looked down his nose at somebody, he was proved wrong. There was always somebody whom had a heart of gold, pure of motive, and it was for these people that he struggled on, by tooth and nail he wouldn't let them down.

Most of those whom he saw looked happy, the simple things pleasing, easing them into the grave at the end of a life filled with acts and event's Peter would class at dreams, figments of his sometimes over active imagination. He was tempted to say he was truly alone, but he had Aunt May, she cared about him, was his link to the memories of being a bullied geek in school, a most desirable position compared to his existence as it was today. She loved him, the ghost of her long lost Peter, the shattered persona he had tried his best to hang on to, his normal life, had been clawed at, grabbed at and still it slipped away on the winds of duty.

He had dropped from regular visitation out of consideration for her, she had seen his state, battered and bruised she was worried sick, and so he found it easier to pick his times. By appearing when he could cover up the wounds with cheap make up or had none on his face he could ease her and make sure she thought he was okay. Lying to her had become a way of life, one of the few constants that he found so hard to live with. Almost losing his life in a fight with a costumed psychopath he could deal with, gouging out a bullet or piece of glass he could do, but lying to the only woman who cared about him was hard. He felt shallow, wanted to curl up and die, it was wrong every way he looked at it except one. Ignorance is bliss, and he wanted her to be happy, no matter what.

She had taken more than her fair share of knocks during her life, death and tragedy never left her alone, and now in the echoes of her final days he wanted her to be happy, needed her to stop worrying about him and enjoy her life. It was the only thing left for him to cling to, the happiness of others. His own life was cracked and forbidding of any such good times, and so like a coach potato TV addict he would live his life through them, working to make them happy no matter the cost of himself. In the case of one person, completely in spite of himself he could only make her happy by not working for her, but by just disappearing, removing his black cat from her path.

The light from his balcony began to fade to the embers of the dying day, the brown stains on the walls haunting and all to familiar to his sleepless gaze. The cell, mindscape empty and bled dry, the day had been one of the hardest yet. Now in its eclipse the prior 13 hours had raped him and left him for dead, drowning in grief and hollow respect for duty and the well being of people who cursed him at every turn.

The shallow door reverberated with the force of a knock, then the sound reached his ears like a jackhammer in his skull. Deafened by the sound it made but completely unnoticed until he heard the creak, wooden frame movement in the corner of his vision attracted the very least of his attention, but it was all he had to look at. Stiff neck tilting up he looked at the gap between door and frame widen, until he could see who it was inviting themselves into his domain.

Features became apparent; it was the landlord Mr. Ditkovitch's daughter, Ursula.

She lived across the hallway, occasionally visiting him and passing on messages or mail that had arrived in his almost perpetual absence. She was very skinny, which gave her a look of being taller than she actually was. Peter had a sense, one that allowed him to see danger, but he always thought Ursula had a more useful one. She could sense when somebody was sad, or is distress, or so he thought because every time he had a bad day, she would come and knock on his door, her shy smile accompanying something to eat or a words wise beyond her years. Again, she had appeared just when he was swimming in self-doubt, it had to be a gift.

Standing in the doorway she took his position in questioningly, he still hadn't managed to look at her fully yet.

"Erm Pete you alright?" The word soft with a hint of an underlying question, do you want company?

He didn't stir for a long few seconds, unresponsive, until he took in a ragged breath, held it and gritted his teeth. He raised from the chair, almost swallowing the trapped air as he choked on back pain, a scorch with impact from burning timbers. He grabbed the nearest top and pulled it on, not seeing his guest's silent awe at his battered physique.

"Hi" He said simply, croaking and hoarse his mouth was dry and unused for quite a few hours. She stepped in, standing stiff and unsure, inviting him to divulge to her his problems. She wanted to help him, she couldn't understand how a guy so nice, sweet and hard working could not get a break every now and then, his life seemed to go from bad to worse.

"I'm sorry, I'm just tired" his eyes weary she walked in fully, her arm extended to him, the gesture attracting his eyes to a mug in her hand. Stepping to her he accepted it with both hands and watched her arm drop limply to her side. Wanting to relish in the surprise he sipped at the contents, slightly flat coke soaked his mouth, the sugar possibly the best experience of the day fading around him. He motioned for her to sit, and she did gracefully on the corner of his bed, hands on her knees in a very formal position. Peter dropped like a sack of potatoes into a sitting position, back to the wall facing his guest; amazingly his balance maintained the drink within its receptacle.

"You sure your ok?" Prompting him after having received no answer to her first inquiry to his state of well-being. He mumbled a bit before answering audibly.

"Just a rough day is all" His modesty betrayed him; she raised a subtle brow at this answer.

"Pete you look more than rough. Do you want to tell me about it?" She gave him the lost puppy look that she often had around him; his resolve had melted long ago. A highly edited version of the days events could only make him feel better, get it off his chest in an attempt to relieve the weight on his heart.

"You really want to know?" He said on a drawn breath. She nodded mutely.

>>>>

**(All aspects of Spiderman related events are in Peter's head, only his social commentary is to Ursula, thus avoiding compromising his identity)**

>>>>

The day had started much like any other. The crack of Dawn had morning beams shining through it, dragging him from the few hours light sleep he had blacked out into. He was getting so tired recently that it was starting to drive him crazy, caffeine injection for recovery infused him with black life, but it was fleeting at best. Doused in heavy sedation he pulled the sheet from over him, rubbing his eyes with his palms, scrapping the sleep from his lashes. Rolling to sit on the side of the bed he gazed out over the city through his balcony doors, peaceful to his first perception, but that's how it always seemed before closer inspection.

Lashing cold water over his face slapped the last of the daze from his mind, and he yawned deeply, stretching his muscles in preparation for the day's toil and work. The same routine had attached itself to him, and it was starting to drag like a dead weight chained to his ankle. He had flickering thoughts about moving. Canada maybe, another city, somewhere that he might see a few differences, new sights and sounds, anything to alleviate the feeling of blur he got from repeating the same actions everyday. 'Familiarity breeds contempt' was fast becoming his motto for life in NYC, but he was proud to be from Queens, he just wished that he might get a chance to do something out of the ordinary for once, not that swinging through a city on gossamer was ordinary, but he knew what he meant, because he was thinking it. That doesn't make sense. Apparently Peter had now started to talk to himself, a trait his alter ego was particularly fond of using, yet with it bit more wit.

Pulling on his persona and grabbing the piece of burnt bread that burst from his toaster he had loaded before suiting up Peter hitched up his mask to just over his nose, spread his balcony windows and flicked himself up onto the railing with his toes, graceful agility allowed him and effortless landing, before rebounding with a flip backwards to adhere to the wall of the building above his balcony doors. Munching with the horrid tang of char in his mouth Spiderman casually walked vertically up to the roof of the block, and sat on the edge.

Casting the last of his undesirable breakfast away to the birds on the roof behind him, the mask descended to reanimate him as the webhead of Daily Bugle infamy, with the mask down he felt sheltered somewhat, like he was stood behind a barrier from the problem of Peter Parker. It helped, but he knew that it was only an illusion, a distraction from the fact that THIS was the main problem in Peter Parker's life. Shooting out a line from his wrist, he simply tried his best to stop thinking as he dropped from his perch and into freefall until the line grew stiff, and took is weight. Gliding away from his flat he was still feeling the déjà vu, but it wouldn't last much longer.

The city was unusually quiet, not even a thug. After full light had gazed over the skies the red and blue enigma landed on the side of an alleyway, it was almost 10am and his advanced metabolism was beginning to shout at him to be fed, which Peter would not readily object to when a soft aroma wafted through his nostrils, his permeable mask not dampening his new best friend, coffee. Pulling on some clothes he had picked up as he passed his flat again a few minutes earlier, Peter Parker emerged from whence the legend landed, his eyes darting around nervously, but nobody had even batted an eyelid.

The small bell jingle was the partner of the door opening, as was the Danish Peter spied to his coffee. After a queue of four people he paid and quickly found a seat in the back of the coffee shop, away from the other customers view. 'Brannigans', the place was relatively new, and yet appeared rustic, must be a marketing ploy he assumed, the wafting coffee penetrating his nose to his brain and urging its consumption. As the cup was lowered from his savouring lips the small bell rang out again, and he looked over to the entrance. A woman in her 40s was being served at the counter; her un naturally vibrant blood red hair shone in his eyes, 'Must be a fascist art lecturer or something' he dismissed, but before he knew it the colour had bled into his consciousness, stirring memories of her.

Mary Jane Watson.

She was never really absent from his mind, but he sometimes had other things further in the foreground of his brain. He hadn't seen her for a few weeks, since his birthday party at Aunt May's house. It was him, MJ and Harry. Harry… it was too early in the morning to prey on that situation. Even if he had wanted to the memories of her saturated him, enveloping his thoughts. Everything had gone well, he had been expectedly late from stopping an arsonist at a school; boy was that fun, what a nut. Upon his arrival she was heavenly to his eyes, warm glowing smile to welcome him, but he knew the twinkle in her eye all too well. It was the one that made his heart spasm into beating faster, and it meant that she was more than just glad to see him.

Harry had seen the way she looked at him, saw how Peter lit up as her eyes made contact, Peter could tell how he felt, it was how he had felt when he found out about MJ and Harry in the first place, sick.

But even so much to Peter's surprise Harry told Peter about how he knew she was waiting for him, forgoing his own attraction to her for hiss friend. Peter was impressed until The 'Spiderman must die a slow and hideous death' talk started; even Aunt May had a pop at him too. It was MJ that stood up, voiced her difference of opinion, but it was quashed with silent dismissal. Peter was proud of her, she was still as feisty as ever, something he had always deeply admired about her, but after that everything went well. Laughing, nibbles and tales of childhood that each had been the only one to remember, enlightening the others to their amusing school antics and adventures, most fresh to a bemused Aunt May.

Harry had departed, using some excuse about a board meeting to hide the fact he was going to get very drunk very quickly, and Aunt May had fallen asleep. MJ had let herself out and Peter was taking the trash out for his Aunt, upon turning to re approach the house he could feel somebody looking at him.

"Hey" she had called.

The following 5 minutes had set a trend that had lasted until the second he was in. She had been intimately close with him, whispered intimations over the fence had brought back all the reason's he had loved her since he had laid eyes on her, and then he screwed it up. Again he was forced to pull away, he made himself filling what should have been "I love you" with "I was wondering if you're still in the village", jeez what the hell was I playing at? She had just called him a mystery, and then told him those words.

"I'm seeing somebody now". The sentence echoed in his head after it was clarified, she had a boyfriend. All along he had known the day would come. She was amazing, beautiful, intelligent and kind. Guys threw themselves at her. He had been a fool to let her go, he should have thought about it, once he let go, she would undoubtedly fall into the arms of somebody else, but one never thinks about that at the time, only of the vague sense of responsibility, that they will be better off without you.

Swirling the last of his warm coffee around in the bottom of his cup his vision was fixed on the blackness of the liquid, its empty void of colour, contrast to the white of the cup. The bell signalled another entry, this time it was a man, tall and good-looking he strode in with confidence, spinning on his heel to hold the door for the person behind him. It was another redhead, voluptuous and beaming her smile at him, she laughed at something he said and lightly punched him in the arm for it. His heart sank, it was Mary Jane. He never could understand why somebody you care about being happy destroys you inside, after all, if they are happy you should be glad right? But deep down he knew that in a selfish but entirely human way it was the fact that you are the one who makes them happy that sustains you, that they need you more than anybody else alive.

She looked so happy, and he fitted her well, they looked like a genuinely loving couple. His lips came together in an awkward meeting and he looked away. Disgraced. He felt like he was a relic of her past, one that should have expired long ago, only a figure in her life, devoid of his own. He flicked remaining crumbs of Danish at the wall that hid him from the other seating area, feeling transparent, burning in his own disgust at his feeling this way. He knew it was not safe for him to have acted any other way than he had, and now she was happy without him. He should be smiling and offering MJ his congratulations, but he was far from that. He was gutted, hollow, and heard her beautiful laugh as she sat just on the other side of the wall.

Making small talk about silly little things, they flirted and laughed at each other's quirky jokes and quotes, it cut straight to the bone. Peter was reeling motionlessly from it, but had a sick notion that he should sit and withstand it, thus numbing its effects on him. He couldn't convince himself this time and quickly sprang up the stairs and back out into the street, not looking back because he knew what he saw would torment him until the end of his days.

>>>>

"You really love her?" Ursula looked sadly at him, seeing his pain made it all that much harder to stay neutral. She hated anybody that made Peter like this, and even though she knew it wasn't her fault, this Mary Jane wasn't not in her good books. He nodded shakily, and raked his nails over his shoulder in a jagged motion, his hand unsteady.

"Since before I can remember." said simply it was a fact, not embellished exaggeration.

"I can tell that wasn't all that happened" she continued, "Where did you go after that?"

"I just kept on walking" Peter sighed, it wasn't all strictly true, but he ran over the bits he couldn't tell her in his head anyway, completely accounting the day prior.

>>>>

Feeling numb to almost everything Peter's loyal legs carried him away, but no matter how far it was never enough. He had wasted almost a full hour just pacing like a corpse in the opposite direction of Brannigan's coffee shop before he realised he was later for his class, but then again on further thought it was now Saturday, and he had missed the class by more than 24 hours. Getting the over whelming feeling that that today wasn't going to be his day Peter stopped in the park and dropped on a bench only a couple of dozen feet in, drained and trying to get his head straight.

It was a Saturday, he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Suddenly his patrol seemed like a good idea, something to occupy himself with, a great deal of boredom and a good mental kicking of himself awaited otherwise. On a Saturday night he had no plans or anything, were as Harry was probably out partying and Mary Jane and Mr. tall and charismatic would probably be at the theatre. Wait, the theatre… I could go! Realisation sprang into his mind like wildfire, spreading and shooting off a million different thoughts as it did. If he went then she couldn't stay mad at him for being distant, she would have to talk to him. Dwelling on that thought he sought out a deserted place to change and webbed his clothes into a small bag, then set off to waste the time before he needed to start getting ready.

The afternoon was considerable at best, still very quiet. All was well until A huge explosion was reported on the opposite side of town. It took Peter ten minutes to get there, and when he did he found a large burning tower block struggling to stay upright, its collapse was immanent. Breaking though a cracked glass window His spider sense was going haywire. The report had mentioned that somebody had called in the accident and was stuck on the 4th floor, which was where he had infiltrated the soon to be pile of smouldering rubble.

Screaming at him his spider sense directed him to a door at the end of the corridor, sprinting through the fire Peter crashed through and found a woman unconscious at the base of a computer terminal, mobile phone in hand. She was an attractive brunette, small burns had licked at her lab coat and she seemed to have fallen under due to the smoke. He made out a name on her insignia, Betty Ross.

Scooping her limp form up he hurried to find the nearest window, and as his spider sense went off drastically he attempted to move, but couldn't get through the fire with her. A heavy burning wall support creaked and snapped, hammering into his back with monumental force. He only grunted loudly in pain, as the huge torched building frame fell to bits around him. The wall broke next to him, and with a swift kick he bounded free, Ms. Ross safely under arm. As he did so the floor they had just came from blew, sending shrapnel and rock out at high speed, Peter just reaching a safe distance, but what little did reach them he had to weave in front of to save the unaware woman he was trying to save.

Landing with a bang on the floor he held the brunt of the impact just as the cops and firemen began to advance on the now still mountain of former building. Crawling up he left Betty with an ambulance before pulling his battered body up a web line to a rooftop.

The cuts and bruises were deep, very painful, but nothing outlandishly unusual. His back was aching and he knew that was going to have to take it easy, even his spine wasn't invulnerable. He didn't even know what caused the structural faults and explosion, but he knew that the two were from different sources, odd, but he had other things to worry about, like getting to the theatre on time.

>>>>

"Your lucky to be alive!" exclaimed Peter's guest as she pivoted on his bed, her legs now folded. He had been walking past a building when it exploded, and had been hit by flying rubble. It would explain the state of his torso when she had entered, and the tired look in his eyes, he was physically exhausted, and with the emotional turmoil it was taking its toll on him.

"Yeah I guess your right" he replied looking up, forcing a smile. A subtle tweak of the truth and he had conveyed the reason for his injuries and what he did between the theatre and the coffee shop. Playing absently with Ursula's mug he continued on with his story. She stood and flicked his light on whilst night set in fully, the city illuminating itself in the black.

>>>>

"The Importance Of Being Ernest" was something Peter had no idea about; all he knew was that it was a period type piece. As soon as she came on stage he was mesmerized, she was so good, he hadn't really seen her act before and it was an eye opener. Also the plot was something he had gotten into straight away, and he was lost in the performance as a whole. As he watched Mary Jane deliver one of her lines she finished with a look out into the audience, and she stopped dead when he smiled at her from the third row. She looked in shock, and then smiled back at him, he could see the emotion in her face. She seemed to phase out for a second or two, her heart-warming smile giving way to a realisation she was still on stage and was being prompted to continue. Peter felt happy with himself, he had shown up, and the look on her face was proof to him that she was more than glad to see him. After so long of letting her down he was proud of the fact he had actually made her smile.

>>>>

"So she was happy to see you?" Ursula cocked head to one side. Here was a man she really liked talking about this mystery girl whom seemingly ruined his day, and yet she knew that the Red haired character in Peter's tale belonged with him. It was in his choice of words to describe her, the way he spoke, his eyes lit up, but then died again just as quickly.

"I thought she was, well she was, but it just, it just didn't last long" He admitted. Peter drifted off, his words seemed to come drifting from his mind rather than a conscious choice of what to say at this point, he was living the memory.

"She.., I waited outside for her and, well He showed up. I don't think she saw me until, well she and him." He was having a hard time wording it, and then it just came out. "She came out and straight into his arms, and after a long kiss I think she only just saw me out of the corner of her eye".

"You mean she just walked away?" Was she hearing this right? Did Peter seem to make such a profound impact on MJ and then get a front row ticket to the woman he loved and her BF making out before ignoring him? What a bitch!

"Yeah, she just, away" He was trailing off and his eyes began to close slowly, then blinking open again before repeating the process. Seeing this the landlord's daughter pulled a sheet over the quickly fading Peter and walked to the doorway, her finger on the light switch.

"Thank you" she heard him say as he rolled over, the light went off and she exited. The last thing he remembered thinking was that tomorrow was another day, he was still alive, and things couldn't really get any worse.

Then again…

** >>>>>>>>>>**

_I was planning to write this, and then after a really shit day it just came out, longer than expected. I'll probably only continue this story if it gets quite a few reviews, I do have the rest in mind, and it does cheer up a bit! Hope you liked it, so please Enjoy and Review, your opinions count, what ever they are!_


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